[img]https://delicatelittlebirds.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/baghdadmainstreetr751914strtbgdd.jpg[/img]

[i]Xyliatos, Emirate of Alijabel Almuqaddas[/i]

 Emira Fathiyya sat alone on her grizzled throne soothed by the darkness that enveloped the room; when she was in these bleak moods only the fool hearty would dare disturb her. She brought a beautifully engraved pipe to her lips and gently inhaled the freshly rolled Hashish packed inside; a tingling calmness washed over her body. There were some in her lands that spoke against such vices, but the opinion of some stuffy fundamentalists mattered not as if the dare raise any objections to her behavior she would have them killed...no tortured then killed. Those zealots seemed to never learn as she was not only Emira, but Protector of the Faith; they would do well to remember the fate of the four hundred religious functionaries that protested her ascension to the throne. 

Her lips curled into a slight smile, her hand begin to shake, her pulse began to race, but the young queen managed to suppress her bubbling emotions as she remembered the reason for her foul disposition in the first place. Mustafa that whelp had managed to woo her easily impressed advisers with his talk of building a united front against the colonial powers, bah he was delusional if he bought into his own spiel about cultural unity and what not. This was an alliance of necessity that was all; if circumstances were more favorable to  Alijabel Almuqaddas Fathiyya would have never gave her seal of approval to this farce. 

The queen pursued her lips trying to remember which industrialized nation she sent her diplomats too, but the hash was fogging her mind. No matter all those pale skinned foreigners were the same anyways filthy dirty animals with no social graces, worshiping dead gods in guttural  tongues. Yet they held the Emira's fascination, they were so intriguing. 

"Wahidat Jamila", the Emira beckoned in a seductive tone and a frail, red haired, dirty, young woman entered the throne room.

 Fathiyya leered at her favorite possession, a few months a small group of pale skinned foreigners were caught by the  mutaween peddling their heathen religion to the masses; all of these missionaries were stoned to death  for their insolence save this fine specimen, despite her misguided religious views this exotic beast was rather stunning and Fathiyya had a penchant for surrounding herself with women much to the chagrin and embarrassment of those that wished her to settle with a foreign Royal. Nevertheless, the Emira spared this woman from death and mold her into an obedient subservient.   

At first this beautiful creature shunned Fathiyya's advances; spitting, kicking, screaming, crying, cursing her new Mistress with her foreign words, and so on. The pathetic thing even tried to escape, but each attempt was even more fruitless than the last. Fathiyya was pleased that she was able to break the pale skinned animal and even domestic it to a certain extent. 

Wahidat Jamila looked expectantly at her mistress, a stranger in a strange land stripped of everything even her name as her current name was bestowed upon her by the degenerate that currently lorded over her; she hoped beyond hope that her captor  just wanted to monologue to her in that strange language that Wahidat was just starting to pickup, but the look of lust in the vile woman's eyes told her otherwise. She thought her deceased family and her homeland. Oh, how she missed the snow. It never snowed here, even this mountain was devoid of snow; this mountain was as sick as the people that inhabited it apparently. She thought of saying a prayer, but she learned the hard way that the Gods do not listen to the weak. Wahidat internally sighed as she felt a bejeweled hand stroke her thick red hair. If this heathen had any mercy she would've have killed her along with her family, but alas it seemed like her captor still wanted 
to degrade her further.